the world in solemn stillness lay (to hear the angels sing)
by TolkienGirl
Summary: "Of course," said Natasha, around the edge of her wineglass, "You're the religious type." (Steve goes to Midnight Mass. Featuring Natasha, and a tiny cameo of Matt Murdock) (this can be read as pre-Romanogers and I would approve).


**A/N: Merry Christmas! Yes, I headcanon Steve as a faithful Catholic. This is set pre-** ** _Winter Soldier_** **, post-** ** _Avengers_** **.**

Steve was buttoning his coat.

"Of course," said Natasha, around the edge of her wineglass, "You're the religious type."

Steve reached for a scarf. Ordinarily, he didn't see the need for one, but the New York city cold was gray and biting, and Natasha had given it to him as a gift. It seemed polite. "Lots of folks around here used to be the religious type."

"Catholic, huh? Popes and cassocks and hidden treasure?" Natasha's left eyebrow climbed lazily upwards. "Wait. Were you an altar boy?"

"Every Sunday." Steve squared his shoulders. He wouldn't be embarrassed by her. Not tonight.

"I'd kill to see that."

"You'd need a time machine, actually."

"Tony probably has one."

"Hmm." He turned away, not interested in carrying on the conversation. It had been three-quarters of a century, nearly, since he'd been to Midnight Mass. His last Christmas was somewhere on the Germany border, huddled around a single candle with the chaplain murmuring in Latin.

The chaplain was killed the next day. Saint Stephen's day. Saint Stephen, the first martyr.

(But not the last.)

"You're welcome to eat anything," Steve said, gesturing towards the fridge. He couldn't offer her the rest of the wine because she, in fact, had brought it.

But Nat stood up, brushing invisible lint from her figure-hugging black dress. "You think I dressed up just to visit you, Rogers? Hardly. I'm coming."

"To Mass." He had no sharp retort; he was merely surprised.

"Yes." She smoothed her bright hair over her shoulders, tugged on a beret, and added, "I may be a dyed-in-the-wool atheist, but I can't resist the sight of America's finest with his hands folded."

Once Natasha had an idea in her head, there was no persuading her from it. Steve sighed, then shrugged. "Alright. No falling asleep, and no talking when you're not supposed to."

"I'm not a child, Steve," she said, very close to his ear, to make him jump. She always moved more stealthily than even he expected.

Brooklyn was bustling on Christmas Eve, even though it was well after eleven o'clock. Steve offered his arm to Natasha, out of courtesy, but was even more surprised when she took it. Perhaps they'd just never speak of this whole episode again.

"Did you ever go Christmas caroling?"

Yes, with Bucky—'round to every house on the block and then Mrs. Barnes wrapped Steve up in blankets so he didn't get a cough. "No," said Steve. "Not really."

The church was half-full, the congregation hushed. There was a handful of sleepy children. No altar boys. Steve saw a blind man, hands wrapped meditatively around his cane, in a corner pew.

The air was thick with evergreen and incense. The organist was practicing _Silent Night_ and suddenly Steve felt like his knees were weak.

"Where do we sit?" Natasha whispered. Her face was unreadable.

"Anywhere," said Steve, but it was as though whatever hopes he'd still been harboring were deflated, useless.

Natasha flipped through the missals, curious but strangely subdued. Steve wondered what it felt like, to be an assassin in a cathedral, but then again, he was little better. First he was a soldier, and then he was a mystery, and now, he did not know what he was.

Prayer seemed remote. What was the verse—a thousand years was a day to God? And to Steve, but Steve was no god. He was a man above men, and so a man alone, and the kneeling statutes before the altar seemed to have no answers at all.

The order of the Mass had changed and changed again, Steve was sure, since his time—and he still wasn't used to it. He stood and knelt and mouthed the responses, and wished fervently that Natasha had let him come alone.

For her part, she was a half step behind everyone, which was strange for Natasha, normally all lethal efficiency and peerless confidence.

When the last hymn was sung, Steve still felt cold. Everyone filtered out but the blind man, who stayed to pray before the Marian altar.

"Let's go," Steve said. Faith, like life, was only accomplished through the will. He had to remind himself of this, that Christmas was a season, not a day, that salvation came after suffering, and not before.

They walked back to his apartment in near silence.

"So," Nat said at last. Her hands were buried deep in her coat pockets. "Shepherds. Why shepherds?"

"What do you mean?" His breath fogged the air, soft and fading.

"God sends an angel to the shepherds before anyone else. I guess they were just…around?"

"They were the only ones who would understand," Steve said quietly. "God roots for the little guy. He speaks to him, too." It was the great man, with great responsibilities, who too often felt abandoned.

"Hmm." Natasha linked her arm through his again. "Interesting." Then, almost too quiet to hear, "Thanks for letting me come."

She was warm against his side. It was beginning to snow.

Probably, they would never speak of this again.


End file.
